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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29160372">ripple</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey'>hellhoundsprey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Consensual Underage Sex, Developing Relationship, Frottage, Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, Secret Relationship, Unresolved Emotional Tension, error 404: no stereotypical top/bottom dynamics found, first time bottom sam winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:28:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,103</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29160372</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As he takes on a hunt in 2000, John Winchester leaves his kids in the care of an old acquaintance. (Sam is 16, Dean is 21.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>ripple</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts">ClaraxBarton</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dean/OMC is non-graphic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This poor guy’s expression leaves Dean with the bittersweet satisfaction that Dad does this shit to everyone.</p><p>As they get out of the car, the guy comes up to them. He looks confused. “Winchester,” he states before he pulls Dad into a one-armed hug. Dean ducks his head and rounds the car to help Sam with the bags.</p><p>“Rick,” says Dad. “Just for a week. I promise.”</p><p>~</p><p>They’ve been here before. Sam says he can’t remember. Makes sense—how old could he have been, four? But Dean remembers. Faintly, but he does.</p><p>Summer, back then. Spring, now. Colder, but the fireplace is stocked and burns warm enough to force Dean out of his jacket within a couple minutes. Makes him want to take a ten-hour nap in front of the fireplace, too, but. Later, maybe.</p><p>Upstairs; bags on the bed. Dean shrugs his flannel off, next; eyes the fading floral wallpaper, the heavy oak dresser. He shrugs, turns to his brother.</p><p>“Well, at least we ain’t gonna freeze.”</p><p>Sam doesn’t acknowledge him. Has been moping ever since yesterday, actually, but after half a day behind the wheel, Dean is too tired to pamper or tease him. Sam should have been at that science fair today, back in the state Dad had plucked them from sometime around sunrise.</p><p>Back downstairs. Rick sat down at his kitchen table, two open beers. Dad still or again stands in the middle of the room, one hand on his hip while, the other scratches through his beard while he talks. “Half a day’s drive—I’ll meet up with some colleagues there. Re-group,” he murmurs. The time he hadn’t spent driving, he’d scribbled into his notebook, dropped a couple of calls. “Dean.”</p><p>“Yessir.”</p><p>“You watch out for your brother, all right? Help Rick here if he needs anything done. He’s half a decent handyman,” and that’s for Rick, who’s still trying to get his feet back on the ground. “I gave them some cash for groceries, so you don’t have to worry about a thing.”</p><p>“Okay?” A frown, realization. “Wait, you’re leaving—right now?”</p><p>“I got to.”</p><p>“Wait, man, you could at least—you look like hell, maybe catch some sleep first?”</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>“Dad.”</p><p>John looks at him. Part of Dean wants to backpedal.</p><p>“You know, he’s kinda right,” and it’s Dad’s turn to frown. Dean steps closer until he can reach out, get his hand on John’s back. “Ain’t gonna be much of a help if we have to scrape you off the street.”</p><p>“I’m fine, really,” and that’s softer, now. More for Dean than for Rick, who doesn’t know anything anyway. Not a hunter. Dad’s on civilian vocab ever since they exited the car.</p><p>Dean gets a hand on the back of his neck, is pulled in until Dad can wrap him in his arms. He reciprocates it—breathes the leather of Dad’s jacket before John parts them anew, for good, for now.</p><p>“Just one week,” again, like those kinda promises mean anything anymore.</p><p>~</p><p>Upstairs, socks. The door to their room is closed, so Dean does his best to stomp, take his time, look the other way as he barrels into the (unlocked) with a, “Yo, dinner’s almost ready.”</p><p>Despite it all, he catches Sam mid-scramble on top of the bed.</p><p>“KNOCK, asshole!”</p><p>“Knock knock, let go of your dick, we’re about to eat.”</p><p>“Fuck you, seriously.”</p><p>“Hey, language. What’s that you got there?”</p><p>Sam’s immediate, “Nothing,” and the sheet-covered heap next to him seal the deal. Kid doesn’t even fight.</p><p>Dean uncovers what turns out to be a bunch of magazines. What hits him first is the sheer amount of naked skin on the covers.</p><p>The mustaches hit him second.</p><p>He can’t even open his mouth right before Sam rushes, “Found them in the dresser, I don’t know. They’re his, I guess.”</p><p>Dean fans the handful of issues out on the bed. He can’t help it; he has to laugh.</p><p>“Don’t fucking laugh at me, Dean.”</p><p>~</p><p>Not much to fuck up about microwaved lasagna, sure, but something about the off-taste of some spices tell Dean it’s homemade.</p><p>Rick’s got electricity out here, which is a more than pleasant surprise. A TV, too. VHS. Heh, yeah.</p><p>Rick’s broad, heavy-looking. Dull, dark hair that falls into his eyes. A ball chain necklace promises dog tags hiding underneath layers of clothes. Another army buddy of Dad’s from back in the day. Or, a fellow soldier, not necessarily a <em>friend</em>. (Not many left of those by now.)</p><p>But they <em>have</em> been here before, Sammy and him. Ditched, maybe, or Bobby had stuck around. These kinds of memories tend to blur and merge in Dean’s head. But he <em>does</em> remember this fireplace. The scent of the nearby lake.</p><p>“I don’t get many visitors out here,” mumbles Rick around his current mouthful, and since Sam won’t lower himself to any sort of human interaction, Dean nods polite enough for them both. “Would have cleaned up if I knew you boys would be coming.”</p><p>Sam snorts. Dean glares.</p><p>“How old are you now, Sam?”</p><p>Dean shoots, “Twelve,” and gets his shin kicked underneath the table. “And a half.”</p><p>“I’m <em>sixteen</em>.”</p><p>“And you don’t have to be at school or anything?”</p><p>Dean warns his brother with his eyes alone. Can basically see the sarcasm bubbling up that throat, but Sam wrestles it down with another huge roll of his eyes, a rough drop of his temple onto his knuckles. “We just moved, so. I dunno.”</p><p>Dean helps: “If I could borrow your truck, I could get some paperwork done back in town tomorrow, set him up.” Rick nods. “I’ll pay you back on the gas, of course.”</p><p>“Sure, no problem.”</p><p>“Awesome. Thanks.” Because Sam is still moping, Dean ruffles his hair too-rough until he gets a reaction. He laughs. All free time and no school makes Sammy <em>a dull boy</em>.</p><p>~</p><p>Post-dinner showers always are extra-warm. The water pressure isn’t too great up here, but Dean won’t complain. Huge hot water tank. There’s an outside bathtub as well, down by the lake.</p><p>He’s still rubbing his towel through his hair as he closes the door to Sam’s and his room behind himself and hears, “You don’t have to be a complete asshole all the time, you know that, right?”</p><p>Dean plops his ass onto their bed. The frame creaks dangerously. He mumbles, “Says who?” but doesn’t put much weight behind it. As soon as his ear will touch that pillow, it’s game over for today.</p><p>As Sam keeps bickering, Dean autofocuses on—the windowsill, the door. Lines of salt, a hex bag strung from the doorknob. Sam might be a bitch but at least he’s keeping them alive.</p><p>“Are you even listening?”</p><p>“Are you even <em>talking</em>?”</p><p>Sam’s nerdy little face tips into Dean’s sight as he lets himself drop onto his back, across Sam’s legs. A book in his lap, one of his completely thumbed-through paperbacks; he’s got his fingers wedged into it like it’s a girl instead. Not that he’d know. All he wants is to not lose his page.</p><p>Sam sighs, annoyed. Interrupted.</p><p>Dean’s eyes drag shut on their own. Warm, safe. That twinge that Dad is—not here. But that’s okay. Just temporary. Like every other time.</p><p>Sam whacks him across the face with a pillow for his slur-laughed, “Maybe I should grow a mustache, huh?”</p><p>~</p><p>Winters have been cruel. Don’t get easier the older he gets, it seems. At least Sam’s growing, still, no matter what.</p><p>Dean feels himself sigh. Curls in on himself a little more, against the human heater little-spooned up against his front. Bright, somewhere behind his eyelids. The morning tosses him awake on hard-earned habit. God, he could sleep all day.</p><p>Sam breathes shallow, still-asleep. Feels like the sheets are tugged weird around them, expose Dean’s left calf. Dean is too lazy to untuck them, correct them.</p><p>With his eyes still closed, he noses into Sam’s hair; nuzzles the soft skin on the back of Sam’s neck, behind his ear. The stink of him, unshowered and in yesterday’s clothes—it shouldn’t be this calming.</p><p>Sam baby-groans for Dean, getting up. The warmth gone, just like that; Dean makes sure to tuck the kid in right before he pulls a hoodie out of his duffle and over his head. Downstairs. Coffee.</p><p>Rick says, “Hey,” and sounds as tired as Dean still fucking is. He sits at the table, bent over today’s paper (they get those all the way out here?) and a lone cup of coffee next to him. He gestures towards the kitchen counter, the coffee maker. “There’s a little left. You’re up early.”</p><p>Dean smile-croaks, “So are you,” and makes his way to the caffeine. Open shelves; he picks a random cup, fills that up. He knuckles at his eye, knocks his hip into the counter. “Can I make more? He’s gonna want some.” Dean points his chin towards the stairs.</p><p>“Yeah, sure. Right in front of you.”</p><p>“Awesome.”</p><p>So Dean fixes more coffee. Sips on his own while he’s at it, and the heavenly bitterness helps whipping him slightly more alive. The fog in his brain lifts enough for him to form a vague plan—coffee, kick Sam out of bed, maybe do a run together or one of Dad’s drills, town, dinner, bed.</p><p>Dean joins Rick at the table once the machine works through the steps it can do without him. The guy focuses on his paper with the dwindling sanity of a sleepless night. Even if Dean apologized, that wouldn’t change a thing.</p><p>No rumbling heater, no traffic outside. Stray birds. Dean peers through a window, finds the hint of the winding path leading down to the lake—it’s quiet. Quiet is good. Quiet means you’ll hear when something comes close.</p><p>It’s just easy conversation, harmless prodding; he can’t help himself: “So, you’re all alone out here?”</p><p>Rick just says, “Yeah.” No wedding ring. No family pictures. “Just me and Betsy here,” and he points his thumb back over his shoulder, to the shotgun propped next to the door.</p><p>Dean snorts. “Classy.”</p><p>Rick gives him half a smile.</p><p>When Sam hasn’t joined them half an hour later, Dean drags himself back upstairs. Socks and boxers and his hoodie, and he uses the bathroom before he lets himself back into their room. He can be silent, and he is.</p><p>Gently, on the bed, on all fours. It’s all about distributing your weight so the mattress won’t shift too much. Sam’s pinkie finger twitches (he’s got one arm half-thrown over his face), but that’s all. Carefully, Dean leans down to get his mouth right up to Sam’s ear.</p><p>He drops his voice low to drawl, “Mr. Mustache Man is here,” and Sam knees him right in the dick on instinct, but Dean’s quick enough to grab that wrist before it slams Sam’s knife into his shoulder, and that’s what—counts.</p><p>Sam’s garbled, “Jesus fucking—!” gets even more garbled with Dean’s hand slapping over his mouth, and Dean is slightly teary-eyed with the pain but he’s pressing it all back into his smirk, grinds his teeth as Sammy shifts underneath him. Has him on his back, eventually, to straddle his stomach. Through Dean’s fingers: “<em>Dean</em>.” Panic-breath. Relief-breath.</p><p>Dean thinks to praise, “Nice reflexes,” but all bravado bleeds from him when Sam lets go of his knife to cup the back of his neck instead. Ice-cold fingers, and maybe it was meant to be a prank, but Dean just shivers without complaint.</p><p>Still panting, Sam scowls. Flushed now, thanks to Dean fucking up his adrenaline. Dean feels himself smiling. Feels Sam’s bony shoulders cupped in his hands, that one layer of seventies’ cotton.</p><p>Sam’s eyes flicker to the door, once, and his nostrils flare with relief.</p><p>Dean can’t look away from Sam’s face while those two hands slip under his hoodie, the soft of his stomach, his back. <em>That’s</em> cold, now.</p><p>A flinch; a giggled, “Fuck,” but then he’s back to quiet. Drops to his forearms, frames Sam’s head; the wild halo of his hair.</p><p>Sam’s almost taller than him. Half a year left, maybe, if Dean’s lucky.</p><p>Dean doesn’t have to scoot back far.</p><p>Sam sniffles as he slowly wakes up for real. Settles his overgrown hands just above Dean’s ass so he can push him down, get himself something to rut against.</p><p>Dean thinks he says something like, “Only monsters sleep with their jeans on, y’know.”</p><p>Sam just huffs.</p><p>Dean drops his head some more until Sam’s lashes tickle his cheek. Until he can hear the shock of that breath right up against his ear.</p><p>The bed only ever creaks once Sam moves to undo his fly, shove his jeans down mid-thigh. His hands wring cold around Dean’s love handles for Dean dropping his ass right on top the wet patch in the front of his briefs, and he—gasps. Like it hurts, maybe.</p><p>Dean doesn’t say anything. Just rocks his weight where it counts. Dwells in the slow fill of his own dick until Sam jolts underneath him after just a couple of moments of—well, this. Dean snickers into his ear, hears him groan. All liquid, all mortified.</p><p>Those trembling hands slip up-down the width of his back, keep him close. The wetness between them cools too-soon.</p><p>After another moment, Dean crumbles. “Wanna do mine?”</p><p>Sam nods inside the crook of his neck.</p><p>Is still flushed and numb-faced when Dean sits back to give him space, gives him access—sees those eyes dropping where he’s fumbling the leg of his shorts up high to reveal the half-chub of his dick. Sam wraps his hand around it immediately.</p><p>Dean swallows a noise. Rocks up on his knees to check how much wriggle room they have with the bed. Fine, for now. Back down, back on the warm-sticky seat of Sam’s half-softened dick.</p><p>Hushed, Sam asks, “Like this?” like they haven’t done this enough times for him to wholly master his technique. Dean nods, easily distracted. Rolls his hips like Sam’s still hard. Like this is for Sam, too.</p><p>After a while, it is. “Again?” and Sam nods anew, and Dean leans down, and Sam’s mouth tastes awful. Like hunger and sleep-spit and Dean’s little brother. Sam’s mouth shudders against Dean’s like he still can’t believe it. That they’re doing this.</p><p>Dean fucks into the tight grip of Sam’s hand; has his ass held with the other, urged on, harder, more.</p><p>“Can you imagine? Letting me ride you for real?”</p><p>Sam chokes a weak, “<em>Dean</em>,” before he gets run over by his second orgasm of the day. Dean grunts with the force of it shaking through Sam’s stringy body, eats at his mouth so he can get lost, can follow him over that edge.</p><p>It takes some more time for himself. He gasps, then, into Sam’s wet, still-open mouth. Lets Sam work him over and beyond. Only then does he attempt to reach down, but Sam’s already letting go. He wipes his hand on Dean’s bare thigh so he can cup Dean’s ass again, let him kiss his fill.</p><p>Dean sits back, after. Roams his hand through the mess he left on the shirt Sam wouldn’t shut up about until Dean had finally bestowed it on him. (Still too big on him.) Sam blinks down at his own stomach, watches the slimy drag of cotton up the ever-tanned shift of his stomach.</p><p>“Well,” Dean sighs. “You’ll <em>have</em> to change today.”</p><p>~</p><p>They catch their breath by an impressive oak tree. Dean wipes his forearm across his forehead, his mouth. He takes in the scenery around them and begins to rotate his ankles.</p><p>Through the otherwise serene silence of the forest: “What does he even <em>do</em>?”</p><p>“Hunting? Like, venison? He’s got a rifle and stuff.”</p><p>“He <em>could</em> just be a hillbilly with a rifle.”</p><p>“You did see his dog tags, right? Show some respect.”</p><p>Sam doesn’t pipe up again for the rest of the walk. Back to sulking. Dean knows it’s not personal. Not his fault. Not like that.</p><p>Sam makes a face at the truck and crosses his arms tight once he’s buckled up to keep himself from touching more surfaces than necessary. Whenever Dean checks on him, Sam’s facing the window.</p><p>Finally, Dean utters, “Dude,” and, “does it bother you that much? Really?”</p><p>Sam doesn’t look at him. “It doesn’t.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’d be kinda hypocritical, wouldn’t it?” Dean smiles. He plucks one hand from the wheel to put it on Sam’s knee instead. Sam pulls his knee away.</p><p>“Don’t,” he says.</p><p>Dean half-catches himself through a scoff. Both hands on the wheel, eyes up front. “Whatever.”</p><p>Your typical tourist town, tucked into a picturesque valley; one hour from the cabin. Dean parks Rick’s truck by the library. A chat at the front desk, an eager flip through their phone book. It’s a miracle that when Dean turns back to his brother, the kid’s still where he left him instead of buried in the shelves. The look on Sam’s face tells him it’s been a close call, though.</p><p>Phone booth. Sam keeps kicking the bottom of the glass door while Dean chats up the local school district. He buys the kid some lunch nevertheless.</p><p>That singular apple is down to its skeleton by the time Sam quietly asks: “How much we got?”</p><p>“Fifty. But that’s gas too, so.” Dean shrugs. “There’s like, one bar with a pool table in this entire shit hole, so I don’t know.” He stuffs his hand back into his bag of pork rinds, into his mouth next. “Mostly mom and pop stores though. As long as we scatter it plenty, we’ll get by with, y’know. Five finger discount.”</p><p>Sam makes a face.</p><p>“I know.” Dean throws in his best ‘I’m not happy either’ face to go along with that.</p><p>Sam allows himself to be tucked underneath Dean’s arm. Hunched over, nibbling his apple. There’s a perfectly good sandwich waiting for him on top of his knees. Saving it for later, probably.</p><p>“You know,” hums Dean, “I think I saw a ‘free coffee’ sign in that library.”</p><p>~</p><p>Rick welcomes them home with a huge pot of fish soup on the cooker. Dean tries, “We’re good,” and raises the plastic bags filled with bread and PB and oats, but Rick just gives them that look Dad would pull to tell you you better not fucking make him ask again, so. That’s that.</p><p>Yeah, that same odd taste. Cumin? Who puts cumin in anything?</p><p>“You got everything sorted out?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Rick nods. “Good. That’s good.”</p><p>Sam finishes his meal out of bare courtesy. Dean lingers downstairs to clean up (unasked). When Rick doesn’t pick up on him making explicit eye contact with the bottle of beer on the table, he asks for one.</p><p>Rick’s eyebrows draw high.</p><p>Dean adds, for good measure: “It’s cool, I’m old enough.”</p><p>Rick grumbles, “Uh-huh,” but gestures towards the fridge, and, ultimately, that’s all that counts.</p><p>Dean pops the thing open with his ring and drinks. He holds the bottle out—some local brand. Pretty bitter, but whatever.</p><p>“Don’t tell your dad, okay?”</p><p>Dean scoffs, takes another gulp, goes back to drying the plates. “Like he’d mind.”</p><p>~</p><p>“Yeah?” (Up against Sam’s mouth, the taste of both their spit.) “Yeah, you want me to?”</p><p>Sam nods like he’s small again. Like he’s actually, acutely shy.</p><p>In the dark, below the sheets, Dean’s hand roams down Sam’s spine. Coarse trail of pubes in the cleft of his too-skinny ass, and he’s so open with just having his leg hooked over Dean’s hip. Even in the unlit room, Dean can see the flush on that face. And as his fingers dip low and then deep, he finally understands why.</p><p>He gasps, “Jesus,” like he means it.</p><p>Sam explains, “I showered,” and Dean kisses him again. Needs to feel him drawing his breath deep when he presses two fingers in at once, the squirm of this entire kid, the flutter of his lashes.</p><p>God, he’s slick inside. Up to the knuckles, and <em>still</em>.</p><p>Dean’s pulse stumbles with that barely-audible, “You want to?” like maybe Dean might say no, like he would deny Sam—anything.</p><p>Dean mirrors, “You wanna let me?” and there’s that nod again, and Dean makes a noise and has to close his eyes.</p><p>He gets a hand into his hair and a breathless, “You don’t have to, if you don’t,” but Sam doesn’t finish that thought.</p><p>Dean’s got to roll over, get at his duffle to unearth that stray bottle of ‘hair gel’ that hasn’t seen any hair gel for months. Sam welcomes him right back, still with that leg hiked up high, with Sam and himself laying on their sides, and why not. Yeah, just like this.</p><p>More than a dollop of lube. Doesn’t matter that it’s cold. Dean stammers, “Fuck,” nevertheless, gets both of Sam’s hand cradling his face, holding him like he needs it. And he does, in a weird way. He does.</p><p>The angle is awkward, but—God. Sam wants it. Wants him.</p><p>Steady grip on the base of his cock so he can smear it across and in that easily-blooming heat, and he says it again, “<em>Fuck</em>,” and Sam’s thumb drags along his lip and the corner of his mouth, and the next shift of his hips slips him right in there, and it’s—Sam’s eyes are hooded, black in the dark, and Dean’s slide shut, so he can—feel.</p><p>This.</p><p>“Sammy.”</p><p>Another inch. He can let go of his dick, put his hand on Sam instead; his thigh, his ass. It’s the slowest he can go but Sam makes a noise, so he pauses. Drags back a little, but Sam gasps for that, grinds down on him.</p><p>Muffled, “Don’t stop.”</p><p>Dean breathes through his mouth. Opens his eyes to—watch. The tremors on Sam’s face. The twitch to his brows, around his eyes.</p><p>All the way in, he nudges their noses together. Curls his arms around his brother and just holds, just feels—Sam’s body, holding him right back. Dragging him in and in.</p><p>It’s Sam who begins to rock them together. Not pulling out, just—making room. Getting used to it.</p><p>He’s hot inside. Burning up.</p><p>Dean kisses him when he moans that first time, when Dean pushes and rolls them over. Kisses and rolls of his hips, Sam on his back now and winding his too-long legs around Dean’s ass, keeping him. Egging him on.</p><p>Dean gets up on one arm, grounds his knees. Baby-thrusts that make the mattress kinda squeak, but that only adds to the—all of it. That they shouldn’t, but are.</p><p>Sam’s got his arms around Dean’s neck, his eyes liquid and glazed in the dark. Barely-part of his mouth, punches of breath. He moves right along, doesn’t miss a beat. Dean doesn’t have to ask whether this is <em>okay</em>.</p><p>(Sam doesn’t like talking about these things. Like keeping it inside their heads might somehow keep it safe. Or contained.)</p><p>When Dean picks up the pace and the bed complains, Sam's breath hitches.</p><p>Again: “<em>Don’t stop.</em>”</p><p>The mattress is quiet if he spreads his legs wide, basically prone atop Sam now with Sam’s balls half-squished against Dean’s pelvis, but Sam doesn’t complain. Just holds on, swallows back his noises and, God, Dean wants to hear him, all of it—should take him out soon, somewhere into the woods, maybe, far away from everything, everyone. Coax him loud and <em>it’s okay, Sammy, go ahead</em>, and Sam would love that. He would, he would.</p><p>A puppy noise for Dean’s hand wrapping itself around the soppy line of Sam’s dick; a tremble to his insides, deep, and Dean feels cross-eyed for it. Plows through it, punches Sam back to soft inside.</p><p>His hand moves counter-rhythmic to his thrusts and Sam trembles out, “<em>Dean</em>,” and his ass shocks tight, goes smooth, clenches Dean so so sweet, and—it’s then, then.</p><p>Sam claps his own hand over his mouth, forces his jaws tight. Rigid all over, spurting over Dean’s hand, his own stomach, and Dean fucks him through it. Gets milked and God Sam’s so fucking wet and smooth inside, draws up so fucking tight as he comes and comes and comes, and they—they’ve talked about this next thing, too, did it enough times the other way around. Dean doesn’t have to ask.</p><p>It climbs up Dean’s spine, buried like this, warm and silk and there’s usually a condom but with Sam there isn’t, why would there be, and maybe that’s how it’s so different from what he knows. It’s such a slow, big wave of—all of it, emotions and bliss and oh God what are we doing, and Sam doesn’t notice at first until Dean can’t bite back a grunt, a trembled gulp for air, and Sam gasps then, “Oh, <em>God</em>,” and maybe he clenches up on purpose, but Dean can’t—think.</p><p>Storm in his ears, the turmoil of his blood. Sam’s hands, pulling him in, dragging him down and in for a kiss. The wet drag of their tongues. Too little oxygen.</p><p>They curl around each other, holding. Feeling.</p><p>Sam offers, eventually, “Pretty okay,” and Dean grunts a laugh, and Sam joins in on that.</p><p>The sun is not gonna crawl out for another hour or two. That dark blue of early mornings. The distant promise of frost on the windows.</p><p>Half-sleep, curled around each other. Sam’s bare skin against Dean’s—so rare.</p><p>Sam stretches like a cat, allows his neck to be kissed, to be pulled to mold his back against Dean’s front. He asks, “Drop me off at the library again?” while he slips his knuckles across Dean’s. Dean grumbles like what he thinks could change a thing.</p><p>Rick is already up when they join him for breakfast. Dean tries not to obsess with how different or not-different Sam looks after—well. Then again, fortunately, Rick doesn’t acknowledge the kid much anyway.</p><p>“I phoned the utility store; if you could pick up the saw today? So we can wrap up the dock,” and of course Dean nods, and of course he’ll earn a bunch of new splinters today. Dean is grateful for everything and anything that will keep his mind off Dad.</p><p>(Day six of—getting up, coffee, workout, drive into town, drop Sammy off with his books, drive back up, down to the lake with Rick and fixing—boat, first, now the dock—before another drive to collect Sam, get them home, get them fed, bed.)</p><p>Money thins out. Has thinned to uh, well—it’s gone, basically, but Rick doesn’t have to know. Dad’s skipped out on enough tabs to be able to decide if this one will be worth it or not. Not Dean’s call. Just—keeping Sam and himself safe and warm and fed, until Dad can take over on that once more. That. Nothing more.</p><p>Sam kisses him on the mouth, in the car, that day. Long and wet, and if Dean didn’t love it as much, he’d be a dick and pull a joke. He doesn’t.</p><p>Says, instead, “I’ll miss you too,” and Sam only makes half a face for that. Dean chases with another kiss before he settles back behind the wheel. “Four-thirty, all right?”</p><p>“Four-thirty.” Sam climbs out of the truck. His backpack sags with the weight of his notebooks, that beaten-up thermos from three schools ago; he shoulders it proud, like this is another normal school day. Like anything about Sam Winchester is ‘normal’. Sam eyes him through the car window, gestures for Dean to roll the latter down.</p><p>(The last growth spurt left his proportions off, barreled his shoulders wide and his neck long. Something not-human to him, sometimes, when Dean allows himself to zoom out far enough. Out of place.)</p><p>Dean complains but reaches across, does that. Barks, “What?” and Sam hasn’t even fucking <em>smiled</em> since they crawled out of bed this morning.</p><p>Still doesn’t as he tells Dean, “Fuck me again on the way back,” and there’s nobody else out in the parking lot to hear it, but Dean’s stomach drops nevertheless. Turns him pale-feeling right before the heat shoots in, and he grits,</p><p>“You’re a fucking nightmare,”</p><p>and rolls up the window,</p><p>and Sam’s mouth nearly gives in to that smile, but he turns and walks away soon enough so Dean won’t see it.</p><p>~</p><p>Dean’s been around enough weird shit to filter out the various shades of shit—danger versus safety, mostly. Naturally.</p><p>Next: different kinds of danger. Will this kill me? Will it hurt me? How bad, for how long?</p><p>Too little sleep, too few calories. A landlord or hotel manager sticking around because they’ve been scammed enough times and have seen enough guys like Dad. Enough kids like Sam and Dean.</p><p>People who can see beyond your games. Who don’t want to play along or—<em>do</em> want to.</p><p>“Awesome.” Dean feels Rick smiling. Gets a heavy pat on his back; keeps his own eyes on the finished dock. It’s not much nor did they pride themselves with a particularly good job on it, but it’s—something. For fishing, maybe. Afternoons, out here. “Awesome; thank you.”</p><p>“No problem.”</p><p>“Beer? We’ve earned it.”</p><p>“Sure.” Dean thinks—two, at the most. Still gotta drive, later.</p><p>Back in the cabin, Rick hangs his coat, strips out of his flannel. Worn-down tee, sweat, dog tags, chest hair—like Dad. Beard, neatly trimmed just this morning (not so much like Dad). Fridge, while Dean shucks out of his jacket, keeps his overshirt.</p><p>Rick opens two bottles right by the fridge and Dean joins him to receive his share. They clink bottles and Rick tells him again, “Good work,” so Dean can repeat how it’s no problem at all, and they can down the first well-needed gulps together. Dean leans into the counter and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand once he’s done, wipes his forehead, next. Groans, smiles. Rick smiles as well. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”</p><p>Couch, TV. Rick doesn’t stop Dean from putting his feet up on the coffee table. Dean takes off his boots in an afterthought; the socks in yet another.</p><p>“You’re pretty good,” says Rick. “Your dad wasn’t lying.” (Some soap opera, channel surfing.)</p><p>Dean shrugs, drinks. “I do what I can.” He faces the TV and ignores the weight of Rick’s eyes. Sprawls a little wider in the single armchair, takes his sweet time on the next sip of beer.</p><p>It’s a while, like this. That same silence they’ve developed in the past days of work, of that odd—distance. Of Dean, coaxing smiles out of the old bear of a man with movie references. Classics and cowboys. Acting older than he is, as per usual; still hard to grasp that he’s in his twenties, now. Doesn’t feel like it.</p><p>And Dean thinks—there’s nothing to it. He’s been there before—worse, even. Easily worse, yeah.</p><p>And when he says, “Can I ask you something?” it’d be easy to just—turn it all around. If Rick doesn’t look at him <em>like that</em>. If he decides that, no, he doesn’t—<em>want</em>.</p><p>But Rick—does.</p><p>(Military, PTSD, isolation. Wrong and unwanted and there’s no place for him, anywhere, but humans are stupid and emotional, no matter what, aren’t they? Hope bleeds you dry.)</p><p>That certain look when a guy thinks Dean wants him. When they realize they’re being flirted with and it’s not an accident, a misunderstanding. That Dean has <em>chosen</em> them, <em>yes</em>.</p><p>Rick looks at him like that—and then has to turn his head, laughs. Dean’s mouth pulls into a smile.</p><p>“What?” he chuckles,</p><p>and Rick scratches through his own beard. Is focused strictly on the TV, now, so once again Dean insists,</p><p>“<em>What</em>?”</p><p>Rick mumbles, then, “Shit, don’t do that,” and his smile is big, but his back is hunched and he’s still scratching, fumbling. He starts, “You know <em>exactly</em>,” but the rest is too much, so it never comes.</p><p>Both hands around his beer, wringing; Rick’s eyes swim towards Dean, like Dean is somehow capable of soothing whatever’s going on in him. Always both puzzling and charming that they think so <em>highly</em> of him.</p><p>Dean rests his bottle-arm on the chair, his thigh. Just looks at the man, and—he wouldn’t have to say a thing. Didn’t, oftentimes, before.</p><p>“Thought you were into moustaches,” and he says it soft, softer than he is, but Rick still panics—somewhere deep, behind his eyes.</p><p>“Well, I.” Elbows on his knees. An available spot on the sofa next to him, between him and Dean. Rick half-clears his throat. He finds his smile again; half a wink to his eye. “As said, I didn’t expect any visitors.”</p><p>~</p><p>Sam doesn’t moan like a girl. Doesn’t do anything like—anyone.</p><p>Lets you push his knee into his shoulder and lick into his mouth while he lets you up his ass all bare and wet. Doesn’t even flinch when you grunt, “Oh, <em>fuck</em>,” up against his teeth because that’s his cue to force his fingers even farther up your ass, dry and too-long and it shouldn’t be good, but it is.</p><p>Shier thrusts, now, with the added ache. Rick’s truck rocks in tune just outside of town, a mile or two off the road. Dean’s face and back are tense. Sam hums against his chin.</p><p>“Fuck. <em>Fuck</em>, you’re so—”</p><p>Dean kisses him so he doesn’t have to hear it. Gives it to his brother good enough that, finally, those fingers retreat, grab Dean’s ass instead—jeans just below—to spread him as he pumps his dick up Sam’s ass; moans against Dean’s ear, into the stuffy air in the back of this dusty truck.</p><p>“Fuck; like this? He did it like this?”</p><p>Sam’s voice breaks off with Dean redoubling his efforts. Distorts, all throat—like it hurts. Probably does.</p><p>Sam holds on tighter, wraps Dean with all the power he’s left with. Clings, like it’s still not enough. Both their jackets underneath them to protect—not the car, but Sam.</p><p>Sobby, “Come in me,” and Dean groans in response, and of course, of course. “Do it; I <em>want</em> it.”</p><p>Quiet again, after. Half-hearted cleaning. Sam doesn’t push Dean’s hand off his knee, this time.</p><p>After pulling the truck into its designated spot on Rick’s property and after unbuckling the seatbelt, hand on the door, Dean says, “It doesn’t <em>mean</em> anything,” and Sam doesn’t look at him for it but he replies,</p><p>“Yeah. I know.”</p><p>Decades of hiding made a good actor out of Rick—he doesn’t change around Sam, not around Dean while Sam is present. A peaceful dinner. Sated, easy. Rick gives Sam a rapport about the dock his brother finished while he was at school, and Sam nods, and his hair moves around his head, and his clothes shift around his body. Dean sticks around to do the dishes. Rick doesn’t push his luck.</p><p>Sam below him, in bed. Kisses him sweet like they didn’t fuck a couple of hours ago (maybe <em>because</em> of it). He’s hard and Dean rubs them together; just a pastime, really, a habit. Dean’s back is sore from working.</p><p>Sam’s hands—careful, big, always moving. (Dark, outside. Dad won’t be here tomorrow, or the day after. Will kick down the front door sometime next week, maybe, or just honk the horn until he gets what he wants.) Sam tastes like dinner, like mint.</p><p>“Can we…?” hears Dean, and he snorts. Lets Sam run his spider-fingers deep through his hair while he fishes for the lube in one of the pillowcases. Dean doesn’t look at him as he slicks himself. Sam makes a soft noise upon his dick getting swallowed down, burying deep and then—deeper. All of it.</p><p>He squirms. Hands to Dean’s flanks; his hips. Holding him in place, pulling him in.</p><p>Dean leans in for a kiss. “Good?”</p><p>Sam nods. Kisses Dean again. Attempts to swivel his hips, but Dean’s weight pins him. “Mh,” he mumbles, lost already, “let me…”</p><p>“Bed’s too loud.” Sam whimpers; his dick flexes when Dean bears down around it. Dean huffs, smiles. “Floor should be fine?”</p><p>“No.” Bratty, babbled. “Like this,” against Dean’s cheek, both hands on his ass, guiding him. “Like this…”</p><p>Sam wedges two fingers next to his dick. Dean takes those, too, without a question, without complaint. Kisses him for his own distraction; hides his face against Sam’s ear, into the pillow, so he can groan.</p><p>“Can you come again?” and a third finger; the raw hiss through Sam’s too-close teeth. “This enough yet? This enough yet, <em>Dean</em>?”</p>
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